


Distraction

by faithlessone



Series: Stormheart - (M!Trevelyan/Cassandra) [13]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, promise of destruction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:47:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25487968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithlessone/pseuds/faithlessone
Summary: Cassandra goes to Caer Oswin. Brennan comforts her afterwards.
Relationships: Cassandra Pentaghast/Male Trevelyan, Male Inquisitor/Cassandra Pentaghast
Series: Stormheart - (M!Trevelyan/Cassandra) [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1756030
Comments: 5
Kudos: 24





	Distraction

The image of Daniel’s ravaged face, no better than a ghoul, will haunt her for the rest of her days, she is certain. Such a fine young man, reduced to… that. He deserved better than the mercy of a quick death, but it was all that she could give him.

The Lord Seeker’s words echo in her head, even after she has dispatched him too. They should have captured him, should have brought him to Skyhold for judgement, but she… she lost her temper. Now this book is all she has left. A book of secrets.

They search the castle, after, but all they find are bodies. Almost all of them are ravaged like Daniel’s. Some have grotesque growths, evidence of the demons that had been forced inside them, but she tries not to look at these too closely. She recognises their faces, puts names to each as she discovers them.

Her family.

Gone.

Brennan offers to burn their bodies, or have them cremated or interred as she wishes. She barely hears him. The anger boils inside her blood with every new horror they encounter.

Eventually, when they have inspected every room, Brennan draws her away, his hand in hers.

“Time to go.”

She is expecting them to ride till near darkness, as they usually do on a journey, but he stops the party at least an hour before sunset. It’s a good spot to camp. A hillock, with a spring. A small stream runs down one side of the clearing, trees on the other. The castle is long out of sight.

“Go to the spring, wash the blood from yourself, and take your armour off,” Brennan tells her gently, having already ordered the scouts travelling with them to set up her tent. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything else.”

She isn’t used to anyone telling her to take care of herself, but she obeys him, too exhausted, physically, mentally and emotionally, to argue.

When she emerges from her tent in just her leathers and boots, she sees Brennan conversing quietly with Varric, and then whispering something shorter in Dorian’s ear. It would be suspicious, if she weren’t so drained. Then he turns in her direction, striding towards her with a sense of purpose she rarely sees off the battlefield.

“Inquisitor?” is all she manages to get out before his hand is in hers again.

“Come with me.” It sounds like more like an order than anything he’s ever said to her.

She can only nod, letting him lead her out of their small, half-set-up camp, and through the trees to the other side of the hillock.

When they’re out of sight and earshot of the others, at the top of an unclimbable slope, he stops.

“So, the way I see it,” he says, as if they’re already in the middle of a conversation she hasn’t heard the start of, “we have four options. First, you talk to me. About whatever subject you wish: what happened at the castle, the Seekers, the contents of that book, the plot of the latest novel you’ve read, I don’t mind. Second, I talk to you. About whatever subject you wish. I’m certain I can come up with some very amusing stories about my childhood, should you desire distraction. Third, we sit here in companionable silence, which I promise I will do my best to keep, and watch the sunset together. Fourth, we spar and you can punch all your feelings out.”

The words rush over her like a waterfall.

He waits, patiently, hand still in hers.

What does she want to do? Her mind is so full, so cluttered with information and pain and uncertainty. Making a _decision_ seems beyond her.

After what seems like an hour, but can only be a matter of minutes, he smiles softly.

“Companionable silence it is. You are, of course, allowed to change your mind at any point.”

There’s a soft patch of grass at the foot of a large tree, and he lets go of her hand, sitting down and settling the bag she hadn’t noticed him carrying, before he gestures for her to join him. This is becoming a habit. After the dragon, after Adamant, and now after this. Holding each other in their times of pain. Separate from the rest of their party.

At least she is not crying this time. She has wondered if she should, if it would help, but she imagines that nothing short of finding a fellow Seeker, alive and still walking the path of righteousness, will help her now.

It takes her an extra moment to sit beside him. She can’t stop the wince of pain as she does.

In a flash, he is on his knees, hovering over her.

“What is it? Let me help.”

It’s nothing. Nothing that won’t heal itself with time and care, a night or two of sleep on the way back to Skyhold. If it were _something_ , she would take a blasted healing potion. But the look in his eyes, so concerned and helpless, isn’t something she can deny.

Wordless, she turns, guiding his outstretched hand to her lower back.

He hesitates before pulling up her tunic. The cool breeze on her skin makes her flinch, and he pulls his hand back.

“I’m sorry.”

“Go ahead,” she manages.

When his hands return, they are feather-light on her skin. It’s almost worse than the breeze, but she refuses to let herself recoil again. She knows this is more important to him than it is to her. That he needs to feel like he is repaying her for protecting him. He _doesn’t_ need to, of course. But she won’t rob him of this comfort for the sake of her own pride.

Besides…

The feeling is… almost indescribable.

She’s had magical healing before him. Not often and usually not by her own choice, but she has. Back then, it felt like an invasion. Her cells being forced back to wholeness, to health, against her will. Magic like cold water, rushing through her like a breach in a dam. Not pleasant. A means to an end.

With him though…

Heat.

That’s the best description she can find.

Not like the scorching winds of the Approach. Not like venatori fireballs.

His healing feels like taking a deep draft of hot tea on a cold day. Like a campfire in the snow. Like stepping out of the keep at Skyhold and feeling the sun on her face.

A soothing heat.

It’s easy to lose herself in the feeling as he heals the bruising on her back, the strain of the muscle she had pulled trying to twist her body away from the blow. The warmth flows through her, spreading away from the focus of her injury, searching for other pain he can clear, the way he always does if she doesn’t stop him.

She _should_ stop him.

He never knows when to give up. It would be irritating if it hadn’t saved his life, her life, the whole world, time and time again.

But she can’t be the reason he passes out.

Not again.

She pulls away from his hands, just slightly, and he immediately backs off, letting her tunic fall back into place.

“Better?” he asks, his voice soft.

She turns back to him and nods.

“Still sticking with the silence. I see,” he says. “Come here, then, and we’ll just sit and watch the sun go down.”

He leans back against the tree, his hand lying palm up beside him. She shuffles over, sitting close enough that she can let her hand fall into his. His answering smile is almost too much to bear.

The sunset is… a sunset. Sky stained with red and pink and orange, the golden sun dipping slowly below the horizon in front of them. She’s seen them a thousand times. But there’s something… different, about this one.

Perhaps it is the company.

To his credit, he remains quiet until the sun has almost disappeared, and the stars have just started to come out. It isn’t a state he’s suited to, and a handful of times, she almost senses him about to speak, and then think better of it.

Eventually though…

“Cassandra?”

She tilts her head toward him.

“Yes?”

“I really am… sorry. For what we found today. If we’d gone earlier…”

“It is done now,” she cuts him off. They can’t waste energy wishing about things they could have, should have done. Not when there is so much still to do. “It was not your fault.”

He nods, though he hardly seems reassured.

“Thank you for being there though,” she adds. “I am glad I did not have to face that alone, as I would have.”

A soft, still sad smile breaks across his face. His thumb runs across her knuckles.

“Knight in shining robes, at your service.”

There’s… something in his eyes. She noted it at Adamant, and then again at Skyhold when he insisted on coming with her to Caer Oswin immediately. If she’s strictly honest with herself, she’s seen it more than a dozen times before, too, though she never let herself think about what it might be, what it might… mean.

Could he?

Does he?

“Brennan?”

She almost asks, and then, at the very moment of it, her courage fails her. If she’s wrong, if all he feels for her is friendship or camaraderie or gratitude or anything less than… the thing she can’t even voice inside her own head, she can’t face it. Not here, not tonight.

When they return to Skyhold, she _will_ ask.

And if her heart breaks, at least it will be done.

“Yes?”

She scrambles for something else to ask him. Something to break this tension that has settled between them. A distraction.

“What’s in the bag?”

He seems momentarily confused, and then comprehension dawns across his face.

“Oh! Ah, yes. Well, I wasn’t sure how long we’d be out here, and you’ve had a hard day, so…”

Reaching over, he roots through it with one hand, drawing out a couple of waterskins and a few wrapped items.

“Dinner. With water if you’re still thirsty, or I have some of that wine you like.”

“Wine?”

He passes over the skin. In order to open it, she has to let go of his hand. It doesn’t seem like a particularly fair trade, but he releases her before she can think better of it. She lifts the skin to her nose first, sniffing it. It… it _is_ the spiced wine she orders from Cabot on the rare nights she is forced into the tavern.

Has she ever ordered it in front of him?

She can’t remember.

She lets her eyes drift closed as she takes a small sip, and the taste is… not _unlike_ his healing magic. Warmth, spreading through her.

When she opens them, he has that smile on his face again. Only for a moment, before he turns his attention to the food. He divides it into two roughly equal servings, giving her the slightly larger portion.

“You expend more energy than I do,” he reminds her, before she has a chance to complain. It’s an old argument between them, so all she does is smile.

When the food is finished, he leans back against the tree. She settles beside him.

“What now?” he asks. “We can talk, or just… look at the stars.”

If they’re silent, she knows her mind will keep churning, keep turning over every expression he has made, word he has said, action he has taken, trying to discern his purpose towards her.

“You offered me a story?” she says, letting her head fall naturally against his shoulder. “To distract me?”

“I did.” He seems happier with the excuse to talk. “Have I ever told you what happened the first time my magic manifested?”

“No. Was it dramatic and amusing?”

“It was a thunderstorm.”

She laughs. “Of course it was.”

“… in the main hall of our estate.”

She laughs even harder. “Now you _must_ tell me the details.”

His hand finds hers, squeezing it gently before he continues.

“I was eleven. It was a hot summer day. I had been having economics lessons with our tutor all morning. I didn’t see why I had to take them. Maxwell was the heir, of course. He would take over the family estates, and _I_ was going to run away to Orlais and become a Chevalier.”

He’s never told her that before.

“Really?”

He chuckles softly. “The fact I was not Orlesian didn’t seem to matter then. My mother used to tell me stories of them. My sister Evie too, when she was in a good mood with me. These wonderful, wonderful stories, about younger sons and lesser nobles who become famous throughout the world for their prowess and chivalry. Evie liked the courtly romances best. When Max had his duelling lessons, she would insist on tying one of her hair ribbons round the tutor’s wrist as a favour. I don’t think Father approved, but whether it was that she was flirting with him, or supporting her brother’s opponent, I’m not entirely certain. Either way, he didn’t stop her.”

Her brow creases. “You had duelling lessons?”

“Max did. Not me. He’s five years older than me, remember? I suppose I would have had them, eventually, had I not gone to the Circle.”

“I see. So, what happened?”

“With the duelling lessons?”

“With the thunderstorm.”

“Ah, yes. I forgot. I mentioned the economics lessons, yes?”

“Yes.”

“So, I was supposed to be having lessons on politics that afternoon. The history of the ruling family of Starkhaven, if I remember correctly. I never did make it to actually having them. I was hiding in the main hall, sat under the dining table. One of my father’s pride and joys. A family heirloom, a mighty thing made of what seemed like half an oak tree. He never failed to point it out to any guests who came to the manor.”

“What did you look like, as a child?” she asks, interrupting. “I want to be certain I have the right image in my head.”

He chuckles again. “Maker, I was a weedy little thing. All elbows and knees. I hadn’t grown into myself yet. Eyes too big for my face. Hair that stuck up at the back, despite our nursemaid’s best attempts to flatten it. The complete opposite of Max, who was stocky and sturdy-looking straight from the cradle.”

The description makes her smile. “Go on then. Hiding under the table.”

“Hiding under the table. I had a pair of toy chevaliers with me, and I was making up a story in my head about them. I heard the servants calling for me. Yelling my name all over the manor. It wasn’t an… unusual occurrence for me to hide from my lessons. Luckily, the Circle beat that out of me. Sometimes literally. It was my little brother who found me, though. One of the twins. Niall. I think he was intending to hide from his own lessons, but when he spotted me, he saw an opportunity to be a little sneak and gain favour with our father.”

“Dreadful.”

“I’d have done the same, unfortunately,” he admits, with a wry laugh. “If the situation were reversed. He ran off, calling out that I was under the table, and… I don’t know what happened. Perhaps it was the heat of the day, or the long hours I had spent in a stuffy classroom doing sums, or the fact I had been disturbed from my game, but I was so… _angry_. Max was the first to approach. He caught my arm and made to drag me out from under the table, and…”

He trails off for a long moment. She lifts her head from his shoulder, looking up at him, lost in thought.

“And?” she prompts.

Shaking his head a little, he smiles at her. “Before I knew what was happening, it was raining. Right there in the hall. A great, heavy downpour, like that first day we were at the Storm Coast, do you remember? Max grabbed my arm tighter, and that’s when the thunder started.”

“What did he do then?”

“He _ran_ like there was a terror demon after him. Yelling for our father, of course. I was going to hide back under the table, but… I’ve always loved the rain. I climbed out, and stood in it, letting it soak me to the skin.”

“Head tipped back?”

He frowns. “How did you know?”

“You still do it. Every time it rains.”

A smile dawns slowly across his face. “I suppose I do. I didn’t think anyone had noticed.”

I notice you, she thinks, but doesn’t voice it.

“In any case, it was Mother who came to the door first, with Evie. It was still raining in the hall. The stone floor was an inch deep in water, the beautiful Antivan rugs ruined. Mother was _furious_. Started screaming at me to stop it. But how could I? I don’t think I realised that the rain was my fault until _that_ moment. I’d seen it as a beautiful miracle. She came striding across the hall, dress held up around her knees so it wasn’t ruined too, and grabbed the toy chevaliers out of my hands.”

She can’t help the soft gasp that escapes her.

He squeezes her hand. “She thought I was too old for toys by then. I had been told off for it before. Technically, I suppose they belonged to my younger brothers. I’ll bet she wishes she hadn’t, though, because just at the same moment, a bolt of lightning flashed.”

“You struck your mother?”

He shakes his head, a grin still playing around his lips. “Worse. The _dining table_. The lightning set it on fire. Father’s pride and joy, and it was _aflame_.”

She gasps again. “What happened?”

“Oh, the rain put it out a few moments later, but the damage was done. Scorch marks deep in the wood. I don’t think they ever used it again. Needless to say, the templars were called in immediately.”

“They gave you up just like that?”

He laughs gently. “The Trevelyans are a very pious family. I have a dozen aunts and uncles and cousins in the Chantry. One of my father’s younger brothers was a Knight-Captain at the Ostwick Circle. If any of us had shown even the slightest hint of magical talent, we’d have been taken away at once, and I caused a _thunderstorm_ in the main hall. The only way I think I could have been in more trouble is if I’d done it in the middle of one of Great-Aunt Lucille’s famous parties.”

“You wouldn’t have ruined a party. You’d have been too distracted by the dancing.”

His brow furrows ever so slightly. “Oh, so, that wasn’t a dream?”

“What?”

“The night we named the Herald’s Rest. Asking you to dance.”

“We didn’t dance, Brennan.”

“Didn’t we?”

Void take her. She was supposed to be distracting herself from the maelstrom inside her head, not _feeding_ it with new sources of anxiety and tension.

“We sparred. You tripped over one of the practice dummies.”

He grins. “ _That’s_ why I had a bruise on my knee! I did wonder.”

“You truly don’t remember?”

He tilts his head, considering for a moment, and then he lifts their still linked hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Did… did I do that, or was that the dream?”

She nods, light-headed. Where did all the air go? “You did… that.”

He runs his thumb across her hand again, once, almost unthinkingly, before letting them both back to the ground.

The air between them feels so thick that she almost wants to use her sword to cut herself free. This wasn’t… wasn’t what she was expecting from today. From tonight. It has sufficiently distracted her from the horrors she saw within Caer Oswin, but… at what cost?

He gives her an awkward smile.

“I’m sorry. I… got away from myself there. Do you want to go back to camp?”

She probably should say yes. Should put some distance between them, some space. Something to stop this maelstrom in her mind that will have her asking all sorts of uncomfortable questions if she isn’t careful. And she needs to be careful. She doesn’t want to… _lose_ what they have. Not now.

Even so.

“We can stay a little longer,” she finds herself saying, settling back against the tree. “Distract me some more. Tell me… another story. Something with a happier ending.”

His smile brightens. More beautiful than the sunset. He leans back beside her.

“A happier ending, eh? Let’s see… how about the story of the time I almost became a pirate?”

She gives him a slightly incredulous look.

“I was seven and I’m told it was adorable,” he promises.

Somehow, the air between them seems clearer. When they return to Skyhold, she will have to have it all out, have to find out for certain where his feelings lie, but… this will do for now.

“What kind of pirates?”


End file.
